


Grains of Sand

by Thebiwife



Series: Love & Loss [16]
Category: ER (TV 1994)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Death, F/M, Funeral, Season/Series 08, Song: Burial (Seinabo Sey), bereavement, burial, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thebiwife/pseuds/Thebiwife
Relationships: Elizabeth Corday/Mark Greene
Series: Love & Loss [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033827
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Grains of Sand

How does one write a Eulogy?

Memories aren’t what they used to be. Not like when you were a child and you could name the hour in the day based solely on the colour of an exercise book, or the week in the year from the extent of the wind chill in the playground. I didn’t have that physical reminder when I was trying to write about my time with you, tiptoeing barefoot between our daughter and an endless number of multicoloured plastic building blocks scattered across our living room floor, trying to remember my time with you, Mark. I can’t place my memories of every minute of every day, our work highlighted by those who came and went over the years, our home life a mass of indecipherable joy, beyond an argument over an empty milk carton or keeping fires burning against my back as we shivered in our tent. How could I put that into words?

I organised what I could from Hawai’i, sitting on the beach with a cellphone in hand and grains of sand between my toes.  __ “Grains of sand we’ll never be” was what you’d said on or last day together, on that same beach in Hawai’i merely days previous, not that I’d fully understood what you meant.

The flowers for the funeral were to be sent from my parents overseas, leading to a tedious conversation with Rachel on the plane about how the flowers themselves weren’t sent across the sea the way we were flying now. I could only imagine the awkwardness of organising the logistics at their end; as they were both teaching and couldn’t get away so close to the end of the semester, they instead pooled their finances to provide flowers for the hearse, the graveside  _ and  _ the church, all of which I’d never remotely imagined would cost so much. Then again, four years ago when I moved to this city I had hardly imagined getting married and having a child with someone, let alone having to then bury the man I call my husband and my daughter’s father.

Something in the breeze, causing turbulence on the plane, sweeping across the city we called home as we stepped out into the cold from the plane, the city’s namesake itself, reminds me that you are still with me. The Windy city will forever be our home together, though our family will forever now be incomplete. 

Flowers taken care of, Eulogy written and crossed out and rewritten, Rachel now entrusted with watching her sister, I arranged what else I could in accordance with your wishes. From what was left behind in the cabinet, the one that smells of old pennies, where we kept all that  _ “serious stuff” _ we neglected until your illness took over the reins of our life _.  _ Most of what happens on the day has likely been pre-arranged by your mother. A third plot beside them, as they wished, although with neither of your parents any longer with us, what use is one plot reserved for their only son. Where did that leave me and Ella?

I struggled with these questions, along with the dread of one day talking to Ella about why you are no longer here with us, my existential dread harking back to the unsentimental conversations with my mother when her parents had passed; a true physicist at heart. We were just taking our part in the universe; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. As numerous as grains of sand.

At the church, many of the people there are unrecognisable to me; while we had the same big church for the wedding, you hadn’t seen the point in filling your side with former colleagues or distant acquaintances when I could hardly do the same. The other mourners look to me to take a lead; stares more than looks of comfort, not that I know how to react either way. Others ignore me, clearly not knowing who I am or what significance I hold, despite trying to calm Mark’s bawling baby in my arms. At least I’m not the only one crying. 

I try smiling for them to see that I’m happy. Happy we’re free. That you are free from the pain of knowing and not knowing how to tell me; from the burden of not knowing how long you had left; from the physical pain as you reached those final days. 

As the Priest begins to preside over the service, I hear you speak to me as you spoke to me,  _ “grains of sand we’ll never be”,  _ the voice strong enough to make me leave.

I thought I should’ve felt bad for walking out like that, but I’d never been a churchy person, neither had you really; getting married in a church had just been a formality, the  _ done thing _ , and now I increasingly felt like it had been a show. Like  _ this  _ was a show, the funeral I’m supposed to want but really is just for everyone else; the coffin lowered into the ground like a curtain falls. I’m sure you saw it all and agreed with me. I would’ve loved to take a boat north with the girls, to the beaches of Wisconsin or Michigan, or better yet, fly back to Hawai’i, where we spent some of our happiest days as a family, and scattered your ashes by the sea, so you could be forever among those Grains of Sand. 

As the rest of the mourners join me at your graveside, I look behind me, and beyond Jen who sits by Rachel. I see Kerry, Susan, Doug, Carter, Peter, Anspaugh...a couple of people I don’t recognise in and among the others from the ER. Then Abby who gives a soft smile and a nod, next to Haleh who wipes tears from Carol’s face. Although your parents weren’t there, I looked at Rachel, at Ella, and up to our friends, and couldn’t help but think you sure knew how to build a family. 

  
Grains of Sand we’ll never be, as long as we live in collective memories. Once we were back at home there was little left to do but  _ grieve. _


End file.
